The Builder
by ACtravels
Summary: Over a month after Sherlock has returned and, detestably, things aren't quite back to normal. Still, nothing like a clear cut - according to Lestrade - case of arson and murder to ease the tension. Adaptation of the Norwood Builder. Post-Reichenbach.
1. Chapter 1

_This story is based on Conan Doyle's "The Adventure of the Norwood Builder" which is the first short story set after Sherlock's return post-reichenbach (after the Empty House) hence this is a short story based on one of the first cases Sherlock and John take after the return, when things are still a bit awkward all round and they're still getting back on their feet life-wise._

* * *

"_Nothing_ is happening," Sherlock muttered, stood at his old position in front of the window looking out onto the street with an expression of extreme distaste. Sherlock had been back from the dead for over a month and although he had initially tried to reign in his detestation of the boring, the fact that the second he'd walked back into London something hadn't blown up was beginning to become detestable, "and no, John," Sherlock continued, without turning away from the window, "it is not due to the lack of your blogging. I had cases before you had your blog. It's because there is no one to _consult_."

"Well," John returned, "I don't think anyone else is going to join your mourning."

John couldn't help but feel slightly irritated at Sherlock's continual complaints of boredom and the temporary-lockdown on his blog which John was entirely sure was the cause for the lack of cases, but then perpetual irritation at Sherlock was something he'd missed greatly over the period of his absence. The comment about the _blog issue _stung more (Mycroft had, for reasons unknown to John but probably transparent to Sherlock, forbidden John from updating his blog with the news that Sherlock was _just fine _until further notice) because, despite it all, John did like to feel _valued _sometimes – which was a stupid wish, when his best friend was self diagnosed sociopath who'd just finished the long, messy business of being dead for three years.

Sherlock made a noise of discontent, crossed the room and sank down onto the sofa. "Mustn't be selfish," he continued in his usual drawl, "London is at peace and everyone is happy. Except, of course, the world's only consulting detective who is –"

"-bored, yes, I get it Sherlock."

"He was everywhere. The _spider_. At least, before, there was the scent of something_ interesting_ amongst the mundane." Sherlock pulled his dressing gown around him and frowned. The problem was that he'd known his course of action would lead to this, to a crushing state of boredom, but continued onwards out of _sentiment _and the desire for things to return to how they once was. And they just hadn't. The fact that his life was subject to a great deal of rumour and no hard facts (the blogging-ban also stretched to any form of media coverage, meaning that only a handful of people who'd _seen _Sherlock even knew that he hadn't joined his skull on the mantel piece) meant that only the e_ver faithful _fanbase and the Yard were responsible for the few cases that had trickled in. One of them had been quite interesting. A second hadn't been as mind numbingly dull as expected. But even that didn't change the fact that John was finding the whole _reunion _exactly as Sherlock had anticipated (as in, difficult) and the warning Mycroft had issued when Sherlock had finally rang him after inadvertently spending all his emergency savings on his accidental-return to his drug habit, skipping the part when he explained how he was alive and fast forwarding straight to '_fifty thousand would probably last until I've finished, if you can spare your change,' _that he was an idiot for believing – or more, hoping – that whilst he was busy completing his mission life at 221B Baker Street and Scotland Yard would have just _paused _until he was able to return to it. Largely, Mycroft had been angry that it had taken Sherlock nine months to contact him and so little time to go off the rails – but the words had still stung.

And it_ was_ true. Things just _weren't_ the same. And it was hateful.

John wanted to push the blog thing further, but Sherlock's poor attempt to recount the events of the past three years had been purposefully ambiguous when it came to how Sherlock had run out of money (John wasn't an idiot and it had taken him less than a minute to deduce why that had been) and about Mycroft's role in the following proceedings. In fact, the more John thought about it the more he thought Sherlock's explanation of just what the hell he'd been doing, whilst he wasn't rotting in a coffin in a cemetery that John had visited every bloody month (it used to be more, but he'd come to accept that he had to _move on _right before Sherlock's reappearance), was utterly underwhelming.

He wanted to fill in every single unknown hour in because he was still having a hard time understanding the fact that Sherlock _was _alive, but after the initial explanations Sherlock had clammed up and refused to talk anymore ('_does it matter, John? I'm back. It's over'_) which only further convinced John's hypothesis that Sherlock had hated it almost as much as he had.

"We'll watch telly or something," John said, "cluedo?"

He was half expecting a curt, derisive comment or two, but instead Sherlock pulled himself into a sitting position – which John took to mean was an affirmative answer to his suggestion.

The familiar sound of the bell cut through the quiet, followed by the sound of someone banging on the front door. Forcefully. The door was thrown open (Mrs Hudson had, no doubt, seen to it that whoever it was that was so desperate was able to get in) and then Sherlock and John heard the rapid sound of feet, the clatter of the stairs and –

"_Client_."

The man barrelled into the room so haphazardly that he nearly fell over; he bent double, his arms resting on his knees as he fought to get hold of his breath. Sherlock was no doubt making a whole sea of deductions, but John merely thought that the man looked like he wasn't going to be able to stand for all that much longer and nodded towards one of the seats.

"Sorry," he said breathlessly, "I am so sorry, I –"

"Apologies are dull," Sherlock said (John thought this rather explained Sherlock's half-arsed attempt to make things okay again – not that there was anything that anyone could say to take away the pain of three long, hard years of mourning), "and considering you just used all your cash to get a cab as close to here as possible and sprinted the rest of the way despite your asthma, I'm assuming it's important."

"I am," the man said, gulping in another mouthful of air, "John McFarlane."

"Illuminating," Sherlock said, "do continue this _fascinating_ narrative."

John sent him a_ let the man breathe look. _Sherlock returned with a _breathing is boring look. _And both men suddenly felt like things were a little bit closer to how they'd once been. Sherlock almost smiled.

"Tea?" John suggested, glancing at the other-John with a worried expression. _Asthmatic._

"Please," Sherlock returned. John McFarlane nodded, still apparently trying to breathe, "_so_, you're a solicitor, living with your long term girlfriend and feel I should know his name – not much to go on, Mr McFarlane. I'm not that brilliant. I do tend to require a little more data."

John knew that Sherlock was only too keen to show off a little after being cooped up in the flat for too long and took that at his queue to disappear to the kitchen, flicking on the kettle as he continued to listen.

"Yes," John McFarlane said, "all of that, and the unluckiest man in London. Please listen to me, Mr Holmes, before they come and arrest me. Going to jail...if I knew you were working on the case... well..."

"Arrest you?" Sherlock asked, leaning forwards in his chair slightly. "What charge?"

"Murder." John McFarlane breathed, just as John returned and offered him a cup of tea (it was a strange world, John concluded, when he didn't find the fact that he was making tea for someone who'd just admitted to being a murder suspect remotely unusual).

"Of whom?"

John McFarlane seemed to compose himself slightly with the cup of tea in hand. "Jonas Oldacre," he said, the sweaty sheen not yet disappearing from his brow, "murder and arson. They think it's me, Mr Holmes, and if they're not trying to find me right now than -"

"Well, do tell the story quickly," Sherlock said, "I'd rather not have to visit you in jail to hear the rest of what's promising to be a fascinating story."

"He is very rich... was rich, I suppose. I hadn't heard of him at all until a few days ago when I received a phone call from his secretary. He wanted me to draw up a will for him... only it turned out that within the will he had named me as the heir to everything he owned. He was a very rich man, Mr Holmes. I was confused," John McFarlane took another deep breath, "he said that he was unmarried, had no family or children and that he'd known my mother when he was younger. When he said it I began to briefly remember my parents mentioning the name – I never thought anything of it, but I supposed that he must have been telling the truth. He told me not to mention it to my mother – said it would be a surprise. I organised to have the will finalised. It was finished last night and then, rather than make the journey home I stayed at a hotel and -"

"It would seem," Sherlock said, glancing towards the window, "that your time is up."

"Is that...?" John asked.

"Obviously," Sherlock said, "your girlfriend knew you were a fan, then. Told them where she thought you would go."

The man looked startled, heard the doorbell ring and began to sweat again. "You'll take the case, Mr Holmes," He said urgently, "you'll collect the rest of the date. You will take the case."

"You really should have gotten here sooner," Sherlock said, looking bored as two pairs of footsteps were heard on the stairs, "it's much more inconvenient to investigate if you've been arrested."

Sherlock didn't look up as Lestrade and Donovan burst into the room. John nodded his head slightly and decided against waving, instead turning to look at the other John who'd turned a nasty shade of white. As potential-murderers went, he certainly looked slightly panicked about being arrested. Of course, John didn't know what could be deduced from that – he was, once again, displaying his remarkable ability to see and not observe, but the man certainly did not look very well.

"Arresting people in my flat, it's almost like déjà vu, isn't it?" Sherlock continued, looking up lazily. Sally Donovan looked slightly uncomfortable. John assumed that had been the point. Lestrade shifted slightly where he stood before he was able to speak.

"John McFarlane?" He asked.

John McFarlane nodded, standing up shakily and looking vividly more ill as he did so.

"Lestrade, please do try to refrain from arresting my clients on the doorstep, it's bad for business." Sherlock said, standing up and finally shedding his dressing gown (God knows how the-other-John must have felt upon finding out that his last remaining hope was still wondering around his pyjamas) and reaching for his jacket.

"Your client? Sherlock, we're arresting him for murder." Sally Donovan looked like she was half considering making a remark about Sherlock's best friends all being murdering psychopaths but thought better of it, instead folding her arms and raising one of her eyebrows slightly.

"Yes, I just heard about that. John, shall we?"

"I didn't finish..." John McFarlane muttered.

"Oh, don't worry about that. Lestrade can text me the rest of the details." Sherlock continued, pulling on his coat.

"We weren't going to call you in," Lestrade said, "it's completely clear cut."

"_Interesting_."

"Really?"

"We'll take the case, Mr McFarlane," Sherlock said, turning towards the shaking man with a deliberate look, "consider our services hired. We'll get back to you."

John pulled on his jacket hastily, sending Lestrade an apologetic look before following in Sherlock's wake. For a moment it was almost, very nearly, back to normal.

* * *

_So, what did you guys think? The next chapter is going to be the cab ride to the case, where Sherlock and John have a bit of a talk. Then, to the case! I really need to stop writing and start revising, but I really feel like I'm getting the hang of this Sherlock-writing lark. Reviews would be lovely._


	2. Chapter 2

"Why," John asked, as he'd finished scanning the details of the incident that Lestrade had dutifully sent over, "have we taken this case? The man finds out he's going to inherit vast sums of money, he pays him a late night visit about the paperwork, kills him, starts the fire, Oldarce – an avid DIY man – has lots of paint and flammable liquid around, the whole thing gets very hot very quickly, destroying half the evidence."

"I need a case." Sherlock told John sharply.

"If you just let me write up the case of Sebastian Moran on the blog –"

"Not yet," Sherlock returned, "Mycroft hasn't given _permission_ yet."

"Since when do you listen to Mycroft?" John asked. Mycroft was, as per always, classified as a sensitive topic of conversation. Particularly, it seemed after Sherlock had no choice but to rely on his brother for an extended period of time – which, of course, was as hateful to Sherlock as quaint villages where everyone went to church every Sunday and their definition of crime was rivals sabotaging their neighbour's flower beds when the _garden of the year _competition came to the for front (this was based on experience, although obviously Sherlock had managed to prove that the judge of said competition was using the competition as a front for a large drugs company, after which John had forced him to watch Hot Fuzz which Sherlock had definitely enjoyed, even if he wouldn't admit it). The question had, apparently, hit the mark because Sherlock turned to him with _the we both know what's going on look _to which John raised his eyebrows. Sherlock sighed deliberately.

"For goodness sake, John. Do you think I took out the entirety of Moriarty's empire by getting them arrested? Mycroft is ensuring that I cleaned up properly – that nothing _sensitive_ can be unearthed. I'm not going back into hiding. It was terribly boring the first time. Then, John, you can be reunited with your precious blogging duties. Till then, we have to rely on the Yard and the rumours to bring in cases."

The silence after Sherlock had finished speaking lasting several minutes as John began to process exactly what Sherlock was saying. I struck John that it was strange Sherlock was, in many ways, easier to deal with when he was in the middle of a case then when he was idle (despite the mad running off in random directions, spouting deductions like a bloody teapot, not eating for days and never telling John what the_ hell _was going on), yet he'd never thought that a case would be key to Sherlock actually revealing more information about his period of absence. Then John began to think about the implications behind his words; _not arrested, sensitive, cleaned up properly_.

"You killed some of them?"

"It would have taken an inordinate amount of time to wait for them all to make a mistake. I'm neither as stupid or careless as your average murderer, but it is possible that it could be linked back to me." Sherlock clipped tone didn't quite fool John, as Sherlock could easily have mentioned this particular point at any time since his return. It almost sounded as though Sherlock was _questioning _himself.

"How many people?" John asked, turning to face his best friend.

"Really, John?" Sherlock deadpanned.

"Yes, Sherlock."

"I didn't count."

Even John could deduce that was a lie.

"Sherlock," John said, "you'd never killed someone before. Not on purpose. Don't act like this isn't a big deal." John had felt slightly unnerved when he'd discovered that Sherlock had never directly caused someone's death. Not, of course, that John believed him to be a murderer, but John himself had pulled the trigger for fatal wounds and, in their line of work, he'd seen being the direct cause of someone's death – usually a murderer or something of the like – as a given. Yet Sherlock had never killed anyone. Before the fall, at least.

"It was necessary. We need a case, John."

Change in conversation topic; _a I have complicated feelings about this and don't want to talk about it _Sherlock classic_. _John almost smiled.

"Lestrade said it was clear cut. The details look pretty clear cut, Sherlock. Won't it boring?"

"Crime is never clear cut. Anyway, I'm inclined not to trust Lestrade's judgement at the moment." John sent him a questioning look. "Guilt, John. He thinks I hold him partially responsible for the events before my hiatus. There's been four interesting murders since I returned. Why have I only been called in once? He feels guilty. He doesn't want me to know he's feeling guilty, because technically and professionally he did nothing wrong, meaning he's trying to avoid us, John. Which is why I neglected to mention the assassins."

"Assassins?"

"Yes, I simply implied that I needed to appear dead to be able to break down Moriarty's gang. Rather than being provoked into jumping off a building due to some unfortunately placed guns."

John rather thought that if Lestrade didn't know about the assassins, the expression was likely to be 'royal pissed off' rather than 'guilt ridden,' but now didn't seem the time to argue the point. Sherlock would invariably ignore anything he considered _irrelevant _during a case (food, sleep, feelings, anything but John and the respective corpse...sometimes even John).

"Assassins, plural?"

"Three," Sherlock continued, eyes fixed on the window, "one for each of my _friends_."

"Lestrade and -"

"Mrs Hudson, yes. It was rather an eloquent plan," Sherlock muttered, his shoulders stiffening slightly. John resisted the urge to reach out and hug him. He had done, several times since his return, and his efforts had been met by a mixed reception. "but, the _case_. Given the time John McFarlane arrived in our flat this morning and the fact that your blog hasn't been updated and the fact that my name was left out of the newspaper articles about the Sebastian Moran case, we can assume that McFarlane came to us due to hearsay. He must have been quite a fan then, to be so invested in rumours that he came to us when he was desperate. An interest in crime then? Not looking good. He stayed in a hotel last night – one that provided complimentary shampoo and breakfast, beyond his usual price range. He was splashing out. Celebrating, perhaps? Well, that doesn't particularly help his cause either, but ties in with the fact he'd just discovered he was the sole heir to a significant amount of money. He skipped the breakfast. Why would he do that if he was splashing out? Because he saw the murder of Oldacre in the newspaper, read the article and realised that he was horrifically implicated. Then he took the first possibly cab to Baker Street. So, he didn't think much about his decision to come to us – meaning he's definitely invested in the rumours, probably been posting on one of those conspiracy-theories sites, meaning he no doubt knows that I have unmatched powers of observation. If he was guilty, he'd have thought about the decision more, probably gotten out of town much faster and he certainly wouldn't have decided to invest in my services, being a big enough fan to understand how adept I am _unless_ he was trying to show off about his crimes... but given there's already a financial incentive – the choice of hotel shows he was excited about this prospect – which he will most certainly _lose_ if I prove he committed the crime, that makes little sense. Then with the fact that Lestrade has called it clear cut against his favour – so, if he was an over confident killer intending to claim his credit, the case would most definitely not be considered clear cut by the frankly rather unremarkable skills set in Scotland Yard."

"That's..." John said, raising his eyebrows slightly, "brilliant." He finished.

Sherlock smiled slightly. "Not boring."

"No," John said, "so you have another theory?"

"I don't have any _data _yet. I don't make theories until I have data, John. Have you really forgotten this?"

John didn't answer, instead rolling his eyes slightly as he leant back again the car seat and mirrored Sherlock's actions in watching London slip past him.

"I'm surprised at you, John. For a man with such a strong moral principle you appear to have had very little reaction to the fact that I murdered in cold blood."

John turned back to face Sherlock, who was still looking out the window. This was, had been, really bothering him. No doubt, somewhere in Sherlock's mind he was trying to resolve all previously unresolved issues so he could concentrate fully on the case, therefore unloading all the emotional-baggage he'd been pretending he didn't exist before he got all intense and case-Sherlocky was probably a matter of the man being as cold and calculating as ever, but John couldn't really bring himself to care about that. It just bothered him that his best friend was bothered about something and hadn't thought to mention it. Surely, that was what John was for.

"It wasn't exactly in cold blood."

"I assure you, I wasn't stupid enough to let sentiment cloud my judgement. It was _entirely_ cold blooded."

"Sherlock," John said, "if you think I'm going to be disgusted with you then... well, you need to work on your deduction skills. Is this why you didn't tell me? Because you thought I'd be _upset_?"

"Well," Sherlock said, "it seems Donovan's prediction was correct."

"They were threatening our lives, Sherlock. Moriarty made you fake your own death. You destroyed an entire crime syndicate. They weren't very _nice_ people. I killed a man within twenty four hours of meeting you." Sherlock didn't reply, his face still impassive as he looked out the window, "Look, Sherlock. You need to start being honest with everyone. Maybe not about the numerous gruesome murders, but you can't just tell people half the story. Lestrade came to your funeral. We mourned you. So for you to come swanning back in declaring that the only reason why you did it was for _a case _isn't going to go down well. You've only just mentioned to me that there were three assassins and now all about this murder business – you promised me, when you got back, that you were going to be honest."

"I didn't lie."

"You definitely omitted certain facts. I want you to tell Lestrade that you committed suicide in order to protect him."

"Inaccurate statement on all accounts, John. You seem to forget that I am _very much alive. _Therefore it's quite evident I didn't commit suicide."

"Would you have done?"

"And in terms of statistics, it was simply a matter of simple mathematics. Three lives are greater than one life."

"You need to tell Lestrade that he's your friend."

"Is this primary school?"

"Did you have friends in primary school?"

"It depends whether you count the skull." John sent Sherlock a look and it was one of those moments when John started to laugh, and Sherlock joined in too. Bizarrely, Sherlock felt much better after mentioning it. He'd never particularly wanted to tell someone things before – not about himself, at least – about cases and about the almighty power of his brain he tended to be too forthcoming, but broaching that barrier and moving on to things of the more emotional side of the spectrum, Sherlock usually only talked about them if they might have baring on something important (read: a case – and even then he'd only mention it to John), but after three years of being completely and utterly alone there was a sudden strange desire to_ tell_ John things.

He hadn't forgotten what it was like to laugh with John – he had all John related memories catalogued very efficiently in the back of his mind, primarily as a reference point to allow him to work out what exactly he'd done to piss him off this time. But, a fault in his internal filing system seemed to be that it didn't quite record the light feeling in his stomach; the sense of belonging, of not being alone, of enjoying another's company.

"I've wanted to come back for three years," Sherlock said, his voice jarring slightly, "and now I'm back and nothing is quite the same."

John wanted to say something: he wanted to explain how he wanted it to be the same too, but how a lot of things had changed and shifted since Sherlock had fallen. He wanted to assure Sherlock that eventually things would be normal again, if not better than before, but that _normal _people weren't entirely used to people coming back to life after three years of complete absence and _normal _people weren't accustomed to the resurrected walking back into their office, declaring that they'd finished some unfinished business and asking for more cases. Sherlock was, for the large part, both entirely dense and entirely perceptive when it came to other's emotions – but in this case, where there was very little data to imply how people should be feeling, it was likely that his judgement was a little off.

Lestrade didn't understand, as John did, that Sherlock had spent the three years battling against the desire to come home, had attended his own funeral, had lived on the streets, had relapsed into using drugs again and had _killed_ people so that he could come home and return to their cosy lives in Baker Street. As far as Lestrade was concerned, Sherlock had been a teenage off on a merry little jaunt who'd neglected to call home and mention the fact that he was alive.

"We're here." Sherlock said, the jarred semi-emotional expression gone and replaced by the _love of the game. _And the moment was gone. John decided he'd save dragging Sherlock through another conversation about emotions until after they got back from the crime scene. Those things were better dealt with in Baker Street, where Sherlock could always shoot at the walls to vent his frustrations. And Mrs Hudson probably wouldn't even be mad at him. Not anymore.

Because, John had to admit, he'd been dying to be back on a real case since Sherlock had returned. It seemed like, gradually, the insane-normality he'd become accustomed to during the Sherlock-days was seeping back into their lives.

* * *

_Ack. I love writing about Sherlock and John far too much. This was a very quick update, right? Yeah. Well, thanks for reading and I hope you guys have enjoyed it so far (although you know, I won't know unless you review ;) ). Things are getting a little better, although Sherlock still has a lot of things under the 'probably should have mentioned that' file in his head (although he probably has it labelled as 'currently irrelevant') which will be fun. And stuff. Also, I accidentally started writing the case that pre-dates this one. As in, a return fic and adaptation of 'The Empty House' so... yeah, I'll probably keep writing that too and post it when this one is finished. And now I'm rambling a lot. Reviews would be lovely, thanks for reading :)_

_Next chapter: Lestrade is annoyed. Sherlock and John eventually turn up at the crime scene. The investigation begggiinnssss. Yup. _


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade was used to being continually frustrated by one Sherlock Holmes – annoyance was more or less a perpetual state, really, and one that he'd come to expect, but there was something about the whole idea of his _death _and _return _that was really rubbing him up the wrong way. He bristled every time he thought of John at the funeral, the inquiry he'd faced at work, his own emotional bagged he'd dealt with and the fact that, all along, Sherlock had been busy completing some complicated case elsewhere. Of course, Lestrade was bloody glad that Sherlock was alive; he had felt the weight of something being lifted off his shoulders the second he'd began to really register the fact that Sherlock was _there_ and Sherlock was _just fine. _A bit worse the wear from when Lestrade had last seen him (well, the time before he'd pealed his supposed-corpse off the pavement), with a slightly hollow look and an even more hollow-quality to his physique. These days his cheekbones looked more malnourished than well sculpted.

"Sir?" Sally Donovan asked, stepping outside the flat and waiting for him to respond in some manner.

Lestrade had felt mostly guilty about not handing over some of the Sherlockian cases that he would have enjoyed, and no doubt helped on, but Lestrade wasn't incompetent and wanted Sherlock to know it. Anyway, although Sherlock had made his team uncomfortable at the best of the times, the fact that they were now working with a man whose funeral they'd attended stretched the normal levels of discomfort. No one knew how to react to the ghost-Sherlock that wondered around looking so solid and real, when they'd already accepted the fact that _Sherlock wasn't around anymore. _So, when Sherlock had managed to wind up on this case – arresting the culprit in Sherlock's sitting room had been another uncomfortable moment – Lestrade supposed now would be a fair time to try and push past his own feelings towards Sherlock's unsavoury reasons as to his absence (there must be a story, Lestrade decided, because John Watson was not an idiot) and to let Sherlock help again.

So it didn't exactly help matters that Sherlock had sent him a message saying they were on their way and that, two hours later, they still hadn't arrived.

After his team had stood around for an hour and a half, bitching about how they'd never seen such a clear cut case _anyway _but not saying anything too bad about Sherlock (as if the _don't speak ill of the dead _rule somehow still applied) for fear of causing Lestrade to flip out, Lestrade had said he'd stand outside and wait for them – more to get away from the high levels of awkwardness, than anything else – and now Lestrade had been stood, watching the lack of taxi in the rain for a good thirty minutes.

He really wanted a cigarette. He'd didn't doubt that the craving for nicotine was partially responsible for his decision to relocate.

"Ten more minutes," Lestrade said, feeling the weight of something heavy and tiring in his stomach, "I'll text John."

Sally Donovan nodded, ducking her head against the onslaught of the rain. Lestrade was mostly soaked and he couldn't bring himself to care all that much. He was irritated, tired and fed up of people being murdered.

The cab arrived just as Lestrade was about to send the text message. Sherlock seemed to have fallen out the taxi before it had stopped moving, already pulling up his collar and walking up to the house before John had removed his seatbelt.

"Greg," John said by way of hello, glancing at Sherlock's retreating back looking just as weary as Lestrade felt. He took in Lestrade's dishevelled experience with the air of a man realising something he probably should have known, "have you... been waiting long?"

"Two hours." Lestrade said, turning away from the road and beginning to head back inside to do damage control. Anderson was liable to be particularly frustrated when anything to do with Sherlock was concerned (his own form of guilt, really) and Sherlock seemed to be looking for any means to entertain himself at the moment... and he'd always enjoyed infuriating Anderson to extreme levels.

"Oh," John said, "Sherlock, didn't say..."

Lestrade had figured as much. If John had known about the whole affair, he was sure to have received some sort of update about the whereabouts when it reached thirty minutes late. Still, the very fact that Sherlock was keeping things from John again (something which he'd just about stopped doing, quite as much, before Sherlock's fall) was sign for concern. Lestrade made a note to invite John to the pub at some point: a well needed prevention system from Sherlock-induced-meltdown. Anyway, John would no doubt have more information as to what the hell Sherlock had been thinking with this whole faking-dead business, and even a really crap excuse would be better than the sparse amount of information he'd been given.

"Where were you?" Lestrade asked. This was understood not to be an accusation, as much, more the ascertain that Lestrade knew they'd had to have been doing something case-related. Sherlock, as much as he liked to infuriate people, liked the cases more. His feigning reluctance over taking cases and turning up to crime scenes was something he really didn't buy into, particularly because Sherlock just didn't do things he didn't want to do – instead delegating them or just not doing them at all – and, anyway, as Sally Donovan liked to mutter at him _he gets off on it._

"Sherlock wanted to visit McFarlane's mother." John said, sending him a _I don't really know, either, _sort of look before the two of them trudged up to the front of the house together, through the rain, just like old times.

* * *

_Okay, this was a short chapter but it came to such a neat little stopping point I couldn't resist. What did you guys think of Lestrade? Poor guy, he has to deal with a lot. I'll actually be getting on with the whole case aspect of the thing in the next chapter, I think. Also, I caved and posted the beginning of the story which pre-dates this (Rhe Nearly Empty Flat), if anyone wanted to check it out. Thanks for the reviews on the first chapter (none on the second? Sadface) and for the alerts and the favourites. Reviews are greatly appreciated, if you were wondering._

Thanks for reading

_:)_


	4. Chapter 4

"And the remains are Oldacre's?" Sherlock asked, surveying the burnt out room with his keen gaze. John always thought that when Sherlock looked at something, that something seemed to obey Sherlock rather than the usual laws of physics and reality. It wasn't a thought he'd ever considered voicing to Sherlock, considering he'd no doubt twist it to imply that Sherlock only saw what he wanted to see, but John always considered these subtle deductions so remarkable and incredible that it seemed reality had twisted themselves around them. Of course, when Sherlock explained everything seemed so transparent and obvious that it seemed it had never been another way.

"Well who else would they be?" Anderson asked, glancing around at the others as if searching for some sort of support for his comment.

John suspected that they all agreed, to an extent, that it had been a stupid question... but none of them seemed to want to irritate a particularly frustrated Lestrade. Or Sherlock. Much.

"There's no longer a body here and I take it you've assumed you've got all the required forensic data. So, why is Anderson still here? I can't imagine you brought him along for the company."

"John's here," Lestrade said, sending John an apologetic look for classing him in the same range as Anderson. More than anything else, Lestrade wanted to make a point, "anyway, Sherlock. We thought you might be able to uncover something we missed."

"Obviously."

Lestrade focused a large part of his energy on not punching him.

"The window was open?" Sherlock said, glancing round the charred remains of a room which must, one day, have been quite nice. "The man lives in London and is obviously rich, why was the window open?"

"Because that's where the murderer escaped after he killed him." Anderson said in his usual drawl, exchanging a look with one of the other colleagues.

"So the murderer escaped before lighting the fire and the corpse _spontaneously combusted_?" Sherlock suggested sarcastically. "Even a man as eccentric as Oldacre wouldn't have installed an automatic cremation button," Anderson looked confused, as per usual. "The window was opened before the rain started, several hours before the fire started. In fact, it looks like it's been open for quite some time."

"If it was open before the rain, "Anderson said, a normal expression of distrust, "then maybe he opened the window because _he was hot_."

"Unlikely, given the weather."

"The central heating was turned up to full, Sherlock," Lestrade said, "his cleaner said he always had it that way."

Sherlock made a derisive noise and looked more irritated than normal.

"So it's_ not _important."

"It's all irrelevant until you've solved the case," Sherlock said, "besides, what does it say about our supposed victim? That he enjoys showing off about his extreme wealth? That he has a disregard to security? If the window was open, who's to say a stranger off the street saw it as an invitation, broke in, got disturbed, accidentally murdered Oldacre before setting fire to his house?"

"Bit farfetched." John said.

"It is no more farfetched than a man murdering someone who has just written a will leaving him lots of money, you've just got a theory that you like and you're refusing to look at the other options. Really, John, I thought you knew better than to take _their _word on things like this. What was kept in this room?"

"Nothing but DIY materials," Lestrade said, "the man was a bit of a fanatic."

"Obviously."

"Nothing valuable, Sherlock. And the cleaner said that nothing's been taken."

Sherlock looked more irritated than ever. John suspected this was because he was marginally impressed that Lestrade had covered most angles, as usually by this stage in Sherlock's-list-of-ridiculous-questions he'd have gotten a chance to call them all useless amateurs, or something slightly stronger, before bustling around feeling important. John also expected Lestrade had only searched for these details after knowing that Sherlock was coming (after all, he'd had two whole hours standing around waiting for them), as the case did seem ridiculously clear cut even to him. Even with everything Sherlock had said, he couldn't help but think that Sherlock was _wrong _this time.

"How long has the cleaner worked here?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know," Lestrade said, "do you want her address?"

"Oh no," Sherlock muttered, "I'll just steadfastly ignore all the relevant details and –"

"Sherlock," John said, "have you seen this?"

"Obviously," Sherlock said, "what is it?"

"The lighter."

"We left it where we found it for you," Lestrade said, "we've talked to John McFarlane's girlfriend and it's his. Fingerprints, too."

"Sufficiently damning," Sherlock muttered, crouching to take a closer look at the lighter, "any other fingerprints?"

"Oldacre's. The man smoked, McFarlane probably lent him the lighter."

"The body was found in this room?" Sherlock asked, standing up again. "Why this room?"

"Because it had the most flammable materials in," Anderson said pointedly, "helpful, when you're starting a fire."

"Brilliant, Anderson, as always you're displaying such fine levels of stupidity that I'm feeling mildly impressed you actually, unfortunately, have the ability to speak. The two men were conducting business and it seems very unlikely that the two would end up in this room. It also seems slightly unlikely that McFarlane would start the fire and throw Oldarce, still screaming, into the fire. So, he'd have killed him elsewhere."

John could feel Lestrade becoming more irritated the longer Sherlock spent spewing off seemingly random points which undoubtedly made sense but also seemed to do little in disproving McFarlane's guilt. John was aware of everything Sherlock had said the in cab ride earlier, but he still couldn't see any particular way that the facts could slot together. Sherlock's chain of thoughts seemed circumstantial compared to a lighter with fingerprints, no alibi and a very clear motive.

"I'll take a look at the study now, since it seems no one else has bothered."

After another half an hour of Sherlock continually ranting about how useless Scotland Yard was whilst inspecting what felt like the entire house (including a particularly boring fifteen minutes when Sherlock had paced up and down a corridor repeatedly, before heading down the stairs and doing the same on the corridor directly below), finding no signs of a struggle anywhere but presenting no alternative theory it seemed Lestrade had lost his patience.

"Have you got anything?" Lestrade asked pointedly. "Because I've got the man, I've got the evidence and I'd much prefer to close this case than have you prancing about pointing out things that don't make a damn bit of difference, Sherlock. I don't give a damn about your powers of observation and the bloody science of deduction, its clear cut. It's done. You're wasting our time."

"We're done." Sherlock said, finally.

John was slightly surprised by this and could feel the surprise being echoed around the room by the other's from Scotland Yard: this was a definite deviation for the script, where Sherlock would have by now gone off on a long rant about how McFarlane was completely innocent before leaving Lestrade to deal with his headache and a large quantity of paperwork.

"Is that it?" Anderson asked, but Sherlock was already off again – speeding off down the stairs, back out into the rain in attempt to hail another cab.

"John," Lestrade sighed, "what...?"

"I'll text you." John said, with a sort of shrug to suggest that really John had absolutely no idea how to explain Sherlock's latest oddity, despite usually acting at the Sherlock-translator and generally a buffer for his best made in these situations; unless Sherlock was being an idiot, in which case John tended to be less helpful. "I think," John said, pausing at the front door of the house, "that you might be right."

"I know I'm right," Lestrade muttered irritably, "pub tonight?"

John nodded, before noting that Sherlock seemed to have acquisitioned a cab at this point. "Better go." He added, hurrying off in Sherlock's direction before he was, yet again, abandoned at another crime scene.

* * *

_Okay, so this took forever. I'm really sorry! I started writing the case that happens before this for the sake I've having ground work in my head, then I started posting it and it took over a bit. My bad. Thanks for the reviews so far! I won't take as long next time and, of course, thanks for reading :)_


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